


distance over depth

by wherechester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Longing, M/M, Michael!Dean, Pining, cas experiencing emotions, it hurts so good honestly, sadness and desperation and anger, season 14, this some sad hours stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 21:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherechester/pseuds/wherechester
Summary: Castiel has felt great loss in his expansive lifetime. People and things torn from his grasp so harshly and swiftly that he swore the nimble bones in his hands have corroded into dust and perished, yanked away by the lashing winds of a soldier’s existence.





	distance over depth

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends, it has been a minute. the season 14 premier has me feeling inspired. have some intense sad Castiel feels. 
> 
> title taken from the song Notion by Tash Sultana. lyrics very fitting if you guys wanna check that song out.
> 
> find me on tumblr @wherechester if you’re into that.

Castiel has felt great loss in his expansive lifetime. People and things torn from his grasp so harshly and swiftly that he swore the nimble bones in his hands have corroded into dust and perished, yanked away by the lashing winds of a soldier’s existence. 

At this point, he has lost so many companions and family members that the numbers blurred and bled into each other like watercolors. Their faces gradually crumbling away from his memory like the tumbling of old bricks, falling and smashing into tiny pieces he can’t quite pull together anymore. 

He sits in complete darkness, the only light crawls intrusively into the room from under the door, pushing insistently through the tiny sliver of space. He wishes he could snuff it out, violently stuff something into that traitorous gap. Fill it up and will it away. 

Castiel hears the voices of the now abundant life peppering the bunker halls, hears Sam speaking. He sounds authoritative, in control. Castiel knows better, hones in on the splintering in Sam’s voice, just prominent to prick his skin and lodge itself there. It sits there, nestled sickly in the soft flesh of his being. Sam has known loss just as great as Castiel. 

The room still smells of Dean, and it makes Castiel feel like he’s buried six feet under. The soft hints of teakwood and the penetrating waft of oil crawl into his nasal passages like dirt. The scents reach his heart and turn muddy, caking there where it dries solid and sits heavy as a stone. 

Castiel knows now that Dean’s palms smell not of oil and earth, but of sharpness, of ozone. Cold, devoid of soft humanity and earthliness. Knows that now those palms desperately wish to reach inside him and pick his grace apart atom by atom. The lines of those palms wish no longer to rest softly again his chest, his back. 

When Dean relinquished himself to Michael, Castiel knew every loss he had experienced in his millennia of existence shriveled in comparison. The absence was immediate, cold turkey. The familiar niggling of yearning, the welcome ache that was so very Dean, yanked from his chest. The tearing hands of angelic possession showed no mercy, shredding the presence of Dean away like jerking of muscles and sinew from bone. 

Uncontrollable rage, raw emotion bubbles up into Castiel’s rib cage like hot wax. Sticking inside him, pushing up into his throat. He shoots up from his perch on Dean’s bed, the hot rod of anguish branding itself onto his back. His vision bleeds red, the lamp on the bedside table flickers to life and bursts with a sting of sparks and glass. 

Castiel curses Dean Winchester’s very name, insults him and berates him in a string of words spat into the nothingness of the room. Calls him a fool, a dumb son of a bitch. Castiel’s hands find the ledge of the desk and pull, sending it crashing down, drawers imploding and spilling their guts into the bunker floor. He sinks down, feet crunching against the debris of the overset desk. 

Castiel wants to rise again and unleash uncontainable wrath on the objects filling the room where Dean slept not so very long ago. But as he stares at the split snaking itself deep into the wood, down the side of the desk, and the very guts that made the desk what it was regurgitated and shattered around him, he deflates. Head falling into hands, fingers tug dark tresses until his knuckles hurt and strands come away in his palms, Castiel sobs. 

Castiel has known great loss in his millennia of existence, but no loss hopes of standing eye to eye to the loss of Dean Winchester.


End file.
